Sally sat down in the remaining chair and picked up his food with his hands; there wasn’t a utensil in sight. Tick couldn’t believe how delicious everything looked—chicken legs thick with meat, slabs of beef, celery and carrots, chunks of bread, sausages. It was so unexpectedly appetizing; he’d half-expected Sally to bring out a trash can full of fly-infested garbage.

Paul was the first to join in, then Sofia, both of them grabbing a roasted drumstick and chowing down.

“This ain’t bad,” Paul said with a full mouth, throwing his manners out the window. “Tastes a little stale and smoky, but it’s pretty good.”

Tick reached over and grabbed his own piece of chicken and a roll. Paul was right—it tasted a little old, even a little dirty, but it was like Thanksgiving dinner all the same—and Tick was starving. No one said a word as they munched and chewed and chomped their way through every last morsel of food.

Tick had just sat back, rubbing his belly in satisfaction, when a young boy in a dark suit stepped up to their table and cleared his throat. His dirty blond hair framed a face smeared with grime, and his eyes were wide, as if he was scared to death.

“Whatcha want?” Sally asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “What’s yer bid’ness, son?”

The boy swallowed, rocking back and forth on his feet, glancing over his shoulder now and again. But he said nothing.

“Got some dadgum cotton in dem ears, son?” Sally asked. “I say, what’s yer bid’ness?”

The boy’s arm slowly raised, his index finger extended. One by one, he pointed at the four people sitting at the table. Then he spoke in a weak, high-pitched voice full of fear.

“The Master . . . told me to . . . he said . . . he said you’ll all be dead in five minutes.”

Chapter

12

~

Long, Spindly Legs

All four of them stood up in the same instant; this time, Paul’s chair did fall over with a rattling clang.

“What kinda nonsense you talkin’?” Sally asked.

The boy looked up at him, his face growing impossibly paler; then he turned and ran, disappearing in the dense crowd of mulling citizens.

“What was that?” Paul said.

“The riddle,” Tick said, leaning over and twisting the paper from Master George toward him. “We have to solve the riddle. Now.”

“Yeah, that’ll be extra easy knowing we’re about to die,” Paul said.

“Quit whining and think,” Sofia said, joining Tick to study the poem.

Tick tried to focus, reading the words through and then closing his eyes, letting them float through his mind, sorting them out. He thought of the lady’s name, Miss Anna Graham . . .